


Finding Peace

by ladybugwarrior



Category: Daredevil (TV), Marvel, The Defenders (Marvel TV)
Genre: Amnesia, Angst, Gen, Post-Episode: s01e08 The Defenders, Religious Imagery & Symbolism, but written by an atheist, so if i get anything wrong whoops
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-20
Updated: 2017-10-20
Packaged: 2019-01-20 08:39:20
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,165
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12429060
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ladybugwarrior/pseuds/ladybugwarrior
Summary: A man with a familiar face comes to Father Lantom after worship.





	Finding Peace

**Author's Note:**

> It's been so long since I've posted a fic so instead of continuing a previous one I'm posting a one shot.  
> This is mainly just a little work on Matt and Father Lantom's relationship just because I find it beautiful and intricate. I also feel like it would be a cool way to start off the next season, or to happen at some point as a way of bringing Matt back to Hell's Kitchen.

How he ended up in this place he wasn’t sure. After leaving the strange convent wearing nothing but a worn pair of soft pants and a hooded jacket that kept his face hidden, he wasn’t sure what he was doing. The women who watched over him, Sister Maggie, was a stern woman and felt oddly familiar in a way he couldn’t quite describe. Much like the chapel he sat in now, like the words the elderly priest spoke in a calming tone that eased the soul. There was a certain type of peace that he found here that he had not even know to look for, a grounding force for the hurricane in his mind. It touched the place in his mind where all the confused emotions and hazy thoughts ran as if wild animals. For a while that was what he thought he was after he left Sister Maggie, a vessel with something dark running in his mind. But here, he was at peace.

All too soon the sermon ended and the well dressed people stood from the pews and made their way through the large double doors. Soon enough, he was left alone with the priest who attended to the candles at the front. He stood from the wooden bench and made his way to the priest, stopping a few yards behind. Not for a moment did he think the man would try and harm him, yet the instinct to preserve himself was too powerful to go much closer.

The priest did not look back as he regarded him, instead lighting a long, thin piece of wood. “Everyday, I light three candles.” He lit the first candle, “one for a man who died protecting the city that he loved.” The second, “the city he lays under.” The last, “and those he loved and left behind.”

With a quick huff, he blew out the smoldering stick and placed it in a small plate with other burned sticks just like it. The old man watched the flickering yellow candles, when he spoke his tone seemed to have aged another thirty years.

“It seems the least that an old man can do to repay a hero that the the common person would tell you was just a criminal. He saved a lot of people, but his death was fifth page news because no one could know what he had done, and sacrificed for this city. He died for those who hated him, and none of them know it. But I do. So everyday, I come here and light a candle praying that it will be enough to give his soul the peace he never found while he lived.”

The priest looked over his shoulder at him. “Who do you pray for when you light these candles?”

He doesn’t respond, it was never something he ever thought of doing.

“You don’t have to tell me, it’s alright. I’ve been told I can be a bit of an over-sharer when it comes to these matters, blame it on the age. But I also gather that you may be the kind who needs guidance, something that I’m rather good at providing. So, if you would let me help you, I….could…”

The priest had turned around fully now and was looking at him like he had seen a ghost, or even the devil himself. Wood creaked when the old man took a step forward making him freeze in something that was equal parts terror and curiosity. With steps that were paced with thought as to the hypersensitive and confused man before him, the priest closed the space between them. The old man reached up to push away the hoodie, an action that made him flinch back. They both stopped for a moment before the priest pushed the hood away from his face.

“Oh Matthew,” he placed his shaking hands on the younger, bruised face. “I’m so sorry, my prayers have failed you again it seems.”

When he, Matthew, spoke there was a rust to his voice. “I don’t know who I am.”

The priest shed a tear and brushed Matthew’s too long hair from his eyes to find the scar of a long and jagged cut on his forehead. The dots connected in an instant for the priest. “I think that I know someone who could help you, why don’t you come with me and we’ll give him a call.”

Matthew nodded and allowed himself to be led into the other room. It was small and comforting, not imposing and grand. There was a coffee machine against the wall on a small rickety table that he could hear move with every passing breeze from the open window behind him.

_ "Do you believe in the devil father?" _

_ "You mean as a concept?" _

_ "No, do you believe he exists, in this world, among us?" _

_ “Do you want the short answer or the long one?” _

_ “Just the truth.” _

The memory brushed him like a wisp of smoke. Somewhere to his left the priest was on the phone in a hushed tone that still carried over to him, but he did not care about the words. Everything else was so loud, even in this small closed room. The table kept creaking under the weight of the machine, footsteps outside were thunder in his ears.

“Father?”

He was in front of Matthew in a moment. “What do you need?”

Matthew raised a hand to motion at his ringing ear hoping that it would explain for him, and within seconds the window was closed which dampened the noise outside enough to be bearable. The priest led him to sit down in metal chairs near the creaking table.

“I called Mr.Nelson, he’s on his way right now with another friend of yours. They will be able to tell you anything that you need to know.”

“Thank you, Father Lantom.”

Silence. The heartbeat in front of him sped by the barest of fractions and Matthew tensed.

“You remember me?”

Matthew nodded. “It’s all fragments, we had lattes here once? I asked if you believed in the devil.”

“You did, right here. Do you remember what I told you?”

He thought with care for a long time. So much of his memory didn’t make any sense, much like his vision that was all fire and going back and forth between focusing and blurring as the changes in the environment. It looked like he was in Hell.

“You told me that you believe the devil walked the earth.” The next question scared him, but he needed to ask it. He needed to be sure. “Father, am I the the devil?”

The priest took his hand, held it tight. “No son, you are Matthew Murdock, you are the man who took his image and made it a symbol of hope. You grabbed the devil by his horns and crushed him down, sent him back to hell. Now you have been returned to us; now you can finally find peace.”


End file.
